Torvald towered above her, grinning wolfishly in the moonlight. He swung his sword once, barely missing her as she dodged just in time, though she tripped on a sharp rock and fell heavily to the ground. Seeing his chance, he raised his sword high above his head, an awful, blood curdling scream wrenching from his throat.
Suddenly Gwendolyn heard a high-pitched whistling sound in the air, then a strangled, gurgling noise from Torvald as his whole body jerked spasmodically. He seemed to sway for a moment, his arms still high above his head. Then he fell forward with a crash onto the rocky beach.
Gwendolyn gasped at the long spear protruding from Torvald's broad back. Looking up, she saw several riders fast approaching them from the direction of the settlement. Their leader, dressed all in black, was riding far ahead of the others. She could hear the snorting of his mighty steed, and the pounding of its hooves as it galloped along the rocky shoreline. Rushing over to Anora's side, she held her sobbing sister in her arms as the rider bore down upon them. His bronzed face was barely discernible in the moonlight, but she could sense the cold fury flashing dangerously from his eyes.
Chapter 22
The full moon was high over the fjord by the time the silent party returned to the settlement. Hakon brought his great stallion to a halt in the stable yard and dismounted, his expression grim. He reached up, encircling Anora's slender waist with his hands, then lifted her from the saddle to the ground. She avoided his eyes and immediately ran over to her sister, who had sunk to her knees in exhaustion, her head slumped to her chest.
Gwendolyn had been forced to follow on foot all the way back to the settlement, her hands tied together with a long piece of rope that had been attached to the pommel of Hakon's saddle. Hakon had walked his stallion all the way back, but she had still been forced to run to keep up with them or else be dragged along the shore.
Hakon looked at them coldly, a mixture of anger and relief raging within him. He had been almost an hour's ride from the settlement when he had suddenly decided to turn back, a growing suspicion burning in his mind. He had bidden most of his men to continue on without him, saying only that he would meet them on the morrow at his uncle's settlement. Olav and three other warriors had returned with him, their horses galloping hard to keep pace with Hakon's powerful stallion.
He had reined in first at the women's slave house, not even bothering to announce his entrance. He had strode in amid the women, his eyes scanning the room for Anora. Berta had rushed forward at that moment, her round, anxious face telling him all he needed to know.
"She is not here, my lord!" Berta had lamented, wringing her hands. "I have only just returned from the cooking house after finishing my work for the next day's meals, and when I looked in her chamber, 'twas empty!"
This news had brought forth a blistering curse from Hakon. He entertained only one thought as he mounted his steed and rode over to the stable —Garric! He angrily recalled the events of the past few days—Garric's lingering overlong at the foreign merchant's stall at the trading settlement; his eagerness to please, so unlike him, just that morning when Hakon had taken his stallion out for a ride; his illness in the stable, and now as Hakon thought back, most likely feigned —and he could not believe he had failed to recognize these signs for what they had been . . . a prelude to escape. Grim-faced, he only hoped he would not be too late.
He had rushed into the stable, knowing in his heart that it, too, would be empty. A loud groan from along the back wall had led him to Egil, who was sitting in the middle of a pile of straw holding his head in his hands. Surrounded by cackling chickens and nervous sheep, with pieces of hay sticking to his thick hair and beard, the robust Viking made a comical sight. Hakon might have laughed had the situation been different, but laughter had been the last thing on his mind.
"Tell me quickly, Egil, did you see aught of the lad and Anora?" Hakon asked him, noting that he was none the worse for his mishap save the angry welt on his forehead.
"Yea, my lord," he murmured, groaning. "I followed the wench here from the women's slave house. She was acting a bit strangely, what with looking over her shoulder, peering around corners and such, so I thought I had better have a look. When I walked in the door . . ." He shook his head in disbelief. "There was a loud crack, and then I remember naught else."
Hakon helped Egil shakily to his feet, then bade one of the other men to care for him. Just as he was rushing from the stable, his keen eyes scanning the waters of the fjord, he heard the scream. Loud and high-pitched, it carried out over the water, echoing among the hills surrounding the settlement.
He had wasted no time in mounting his stallion, though a sense of dread settled over him as he rode like the wind down the hill and along the rocky shoreline. Just barely able to make out several battling figures in the darkness, he had sent a fervent prayer to Odin that he would not be too late. He had drawn his winged spear from his saddle, holding it poised and ready in hand until he could be sure of his target.
The wild Viking war cry carried high upon the wind had been all Hakon needed. The deadly weapon had sailed through the air, finding its mark, the awful scream cut off as abruptly as the life of the man who had uttered it.
Dismounting from his stallion with sword in hand, Hakon had quickly taken in the scene before him. Relief had surged through his body once he knew Anora was unharmed, but it had soon been replaced by cold, restrained fury at the look of hateful defiance that had burned in the lad's eyes.
***
"My lord!" Olav's shout interrupted Hakon's dark thoughts, as he rode up into the stable yard and dismounted from his sweating horse. "The bodies of Svein and Torvald have been thrown into the fjord, as you commanded, and may Hel, goddess of the underworld, enjoy their foul company!" he spat fiercely.
Hakon only nodded, his face grim, his chiseled lips a tight line. Anora still huddled beside Gwendolyn, her arms tightly hugging her sister's shoulders. Truly, they made a pathetic pair, he thought. But right now he had no time for pity.
Walking up to Anora, he bent down and pulled her away from Gwendolyn's side. She struggled, but in vain. Her protests were no match for his muscled strength. "Hold her fast," he bid Olav, who grabbed her and held her arms tightly.
"Stand up, Garric!" Hakon ordered.
Gwendolyn raised her eyes to meet his. Angry rebellion shone from the emerald depths, hitting Hakon with an almost physical force as she rose unsteadily to her feet.
Even now the lad shows his hate, he marveled, impressed by Garric's courage despite the severe punishment that was sure to come. A Viking guard approached the small group carrying a studded lash and handed it to Hakon. He took it, wrapping it about his right hand.
"Tie him to the post!" Hakon commanded. Two warriors rushed to obey, seizing Gwendolyn by the arms and dragging her up against the thick timbered post. She offered no resistance as they tied her securely. Her face was expressionless, though her eyes glittered defiantly.
Hakon stood back several feet from the post as he tested the lash. The cruel piece of leather cut through the air like a slithering serpent, the metal studs cutting small gouges in the snow-covered dirt as it hit the ground.
"I have warned you from the start, Garric, not to force my hand, but in this last instance you have pressed me too far. Though you are but a mere boy, I can no longer tolerate such blatant defiance on your part. You must be punished."
Gwendolyn closed her eyes tightly and leaned against the post as she heard the lash sing through the air. She jerked as it cut across her back, though the pain was slight due to the thickness of her fur-lined jerkin. Again the lash sailed through the air, this time hitting her across the legs. The woolen breeches were no match for the biting sting of the studded lash. She cried out in pain.
"Nay . . . please stop . . . please!" begged Anora, suddenly wrenching free from Olav's arms. She ran over to Hakon and threw herself at his feet, her beautiful face streaked with tears as she looked up at him beseechingly. "Please, strike him no more!" she ple
aded, her slender body wracked by sobs. "If you will only stop, my lord Hakon, I promise that I will come to your bed this night. You have made known your desire for me many times. If it is still your wish, I . . . I am yours."
Hakon's face was inscrutable as he looked down at Anora, a cold, empty feeling inside him. So, he had won at last, he thought bitterly, though his victory was indeed a hollow one. He bent down and gently lifted Anora to her feet, his blue eyes searching her face. For the first time she met his gaze evenly and without fear, despite her trembling.
Only her love for her brother and her desire to protect him has brought her to this, he thought ironically. His punishment of Garric had accomplished so easily what his patience and gentle words had failed to do. He noted well the set determination of her delicate chin, and the hint of defiance in her eyes that now matched that of her brother's. Hakon sighed. This was not how he had imagined it would be. But, if he could not have her heart . . . he would no longer deny himself her body.
"You are mine, Anora, by your consent or not," he murmured possessively, drawing her close. "Garric will be spared not because you have given yourself to me at last, but only if I wish it to be so." With that, he held her away from him, one hand gripping her arm, while the other still toyed with the lash. He stared at Gwendolyn for several moments, not saying a word. Truly the lad deserved to be punished further for the escape attempt, for he had no doubt that Garric had been the one to plan it. But Hakon had spent his wrath. His mind had turned to other things . . .
"Cut him down!" he ordered tersely. One of the Viking guards drew his sword and quickly severed the ropes binding Gwendolyn. She did not fall, but stood leaning on the post. Anora gasped in relief and tried to run to her sister's side. But Hakon held her fast.
"Please, my lord, allow me a few moments to help Garric to his pallet in the stable, and to see to his wounds," she entreated, her eyes pleading with him.
"Nay, Anora." Hakon shook his head. "You will hold to your promise this night, and accompany me to my hall."
But Anora stood fast, awakened to the power she had over him. She looked at him with a newfound boldness that she had not known she possessed. "I cannot come to you knowing my brother is hurt. If you will allow me only a few moments to care for him, I will be most grateful, my lord Hakon." She gazed up at him unabashed, her meaning reflected in her eyes.
Hakon looked confounded for a moment. Loki's mischief, he would never understand women! For the past month Anora had avoided him at every turn, spurning his advances, and now she had gifted him with such a look that made his blood boil! He glanced over at Gwendolyn, who was leaning her head against the post. The lad does indeed look pale, he admitted, and she has asked for only a few moments . . .
"Very well," he said gruffly, letting go of her arm. "But do not linger overlong. My patience has already been sorely tried this day." She nodded, then ran over to Gwendolyn's side. His eyes hungrily followed her lithe form. Yea, he would not wait long. "Olav, see that Anora is escorted to my hall after she has seen to her brother," he ordered.
"Yea, my lord," he answered, watching as Hakon threw the lash to the ground and strode off in the direction of his hall. He sighed, grateful for how the night had ended. Hakon's wrath would have turned on them all if aught had happened to the wench.
"Come on, Gwen— . . . Garric," Anora whispered in her sister's ear. Gwendolyn let go of the post and leaned on her for support, testing the strength in her legs. She gritted her teeth at the pain.
"I am fine now, Anora," she murmured, limping as she walked toward the stable. Her sister held her arm, despite her weak protests, until they had walked through the stable door.
Anora's delicate features were etched with concern. "Here, let me help you to your palle — "
"Shut the door behind us!" Gwendolyn suddenly hissed, interrupting her. She feigned a collapse on the pallet for the benefit of Olav, who stood watching them from the stable-yard. Anora looked dubiously at her sister, then hurried back to the entrance and quietly closed the wooden door.
"We must work fast, Anora!" Gwendolyn whispered urgently. She jumped up from her pallet, ignoring the ache in her legs, and ran to the far wall of the stable, where the farming implements and metal tools were kept. Her eyes quickly scanned the varied assortment until she found the one she was looking for — a long metal blade that was used to shear sheep. She yanked it from its hook and tested the blade's sharpness with her finger. Aye, it would do, she thought, hurrying back to her sister.
Anora looked at her incredulously. "What are you going to do?"
"I will not have you give yourself to that Viking!" Gwendolyn blurted angrily, a fierce light burning in her eyes. "I made a promise to you on that ship, and I mean to keep it! We will escape from here, but it will take more time." She paused, her voice low. "I will go to Lord Hakon tonight in your place!"
Anora could not believe her ears. Sweet Jesu! Gwendolyn has gone mad! she thought frantically, tears rushing to her eyes. It was more than she could bear. She fell to her knees, her shoulders shaking from the despair that wracked her body. Would that Svein had killed her rather than see her sister like this!
Gwendolyn dropped to her knees and shook Anora roughly. "Listen to me," she pleaded desperately, "for we have little time left! No doubt Olav will soon call for you." She held Anora's face in her hands. "I cannot bear the thought of you sacrificing yourself for me. You belong to Wulfgar . . . he is the only man who should ever touch you!"
Anora nodded numbly. Her eyes stared into the distance as she remembered those long days spent in the tent on Hakon's ship during the sea crossing. She had never told Gwendolyn that she had considered ending her life then, that she would rather have died knowing one night with Wulfgar than feel another man's hands upon her. It was only Gwendolyn's vow to her that had restored her will to live and given her hope.
Gwendolyn rushed on anxiously. "I had thought all was lost until you begged Hakon to allow you a few moments to care for me. It gave me the time I needed to think." She stood and pulled off her jerkin. "Here, quickly! Exchange your clothes with mine. Then I will have to cut your hair, Anora. 'Tis really the only thing that sets us apart. You must now play the part of Garric, while I will go to Lord Hakon in your place. He will never know the difference, for we look so much alike. If I have managed to deceive him this long as a boy, surely this plan cannot fail!" She hurriedly stripped off her shirt and bent down to pull off her leather boots. "Now, Anora! Give me your clothes!"
Anora stared dumbfounded, her mind racing. "You would do this for me?" she asked, searching Gwendolyn's face.
"Aye," Gwendolyn replied simply. She straightened up and embraced her sister tightly. "I would do aught to protect you, Anora."
Her eyes shining with grateful tears, Anora hesitated no longer. She quickly slipped her plain woolen mantle, then the linen shift, over her head. She had lost her fur cloak during the awful encounter along the shoreline, though she had scarcely noticed the cold until now. She stood shivering while Gwendolyn finished undressing. Then she quickly donned the clothes tossed over to her.
"You always wished you had the daring to wear men's clothing, Anora," Gwendolyn whispered, a faint smile on her lips as she pulled the shift down over her head, then the mantle. "Now is your chance." At any other time she would have laughed. But a strange fear was beginning to gnaw at her, chasing all thoughts from her mind and threatening to weaken her resolve. Nay, she could not change her mind now, she chided herself. There would be no turning back . . .
Anora's worried voice interrupted her dark thoughts. "But I know naught of horses and such, Gwendolyn. What shall I do—"
"I will teach you what I can whenever Lord Hakon is away from the settlement, though you will have to learn fast," she replied. "And if there is need, I can always become Garric again!" She winked reassuringly. "Now, kneel down, Anora, so I may cut your hair," she murmured, picking up the blade from the ground.
It did not take long before the stable fl
oor around them was strewn with Anora's long, silver-blond tresses. Gwendolyn stepped back to survey her handiwork. Aye, it would have to do, she thought grimly, noting with satisfaction how her sister's newly shorn hair curled softly about her face much the same as her own.
"'Tis a small price to pay for such a cost," Anora murmured. She quickly gathered her hair in a pile and was about to hide it under the straw when Gwendolyn stopped her.
"Nay, Anora, I wish to take it with me to the Viking's hall," Gwendolyn whispered. She bent down and scooped up the silky mass.
Suddenly Olav's voice boomed out from the stable yard. "Enough, wench! If the lad needs further help, I will fetch the healer to minister to him. Come out from the stable!"
Gwendolyn wheeled around, her hand to her throat, the other clutching the long strands of silver-blond hair. Suddenly she did not feel so brave.
Anora threw her arms about her sister's neck, her face wet with tears. "I shall never forget what you have done for me this night, Gwendolyn," she said softly.
Gwendolyn nodded, though her eyes were distant. "Lie down on the pallet . . . quickly!" She covered her sister with the woolen blanket. "You are now Garric, slave and stable hand to Hakon Jarl!" she whispered vehemently. "We will play this out as long as we can, and hopefully find a way to escape before our guise is discovered!"
And if God wills it, she thought, crossing herself. She turned away abruptly, knowing that if she lingered any longer she might lose her courage. At that moment Olav pushed open the stable door.
"Come on, wench, before Lord Hakon returns himself to carry you back to his hall!" he blustered. He stepped back in surprise. What has the wench done to her hair? he wondered, his mouth gaping as he looked at the long strands dangling from her hand. Truly the short curls did little to lessen her beauty, but he could not help but think Lord Hakon would be extremely displeased. He shook his head, his eyes flickering over the huddled figure lying on the pallet. He bent down to pull back the woolen blanket, but Gwendolyn stopped him.
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